The Martyr

Palestinian-mourners-carr-007

 

Muntaha Mahdi, Singapore

 

They bind my hands with shackles, so tight my skin bleeds

They say that I’m a rebel; I’m living on false beliefs

They drag me across the streets, so people can see

The helpless look on my face, the look of uncertainty

They bind my hands with shackles, so tight my skin bleeds

They try to break my resolve; they drag me down the streets

They rejoice over their false victory, they mock at my state

They tell me I could have faced a completely different fate

They disassemble my body, but they can’t shake my soul

They tear me down, they watch me fall

They bind my hands with shackles, so tight my skin bleeds

They say that I’m a fool; I’m dying over false beliefs [1]

 

 

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